I don’t have much of a problem with my genes… well, not every day, at least. But one thing I do love about them, is that I am very much like my father. It’s quite conventional, when you apply it to a woman, yet coming from my dad, I have no problem with it: I LOVE to bake. And to cook.
I know that my fondness for such stereotypical activities linked to females might have the feminists wailing against me. As I have pointed out once in my blog – or, at least, I believe I pointed it out – is that I am somewhat of a feminist, but let’s not venture into that now. The thing is, I don’t feel obligated to cook, and my Significant Other doesn’t expect me to. I enjoy it. Seeing how the people you care for (and, sometimes, even those who don’t much care for you) enjoy the food you prepared for them with all the love and goodness in your heart makes the effort of cooking worthwhile. It’s an act of caring, of giving, and those are the things that mean so much. So yes, I cook and bake because it’s fun… Plus I grew up in a house with an appreciation for good food and good times, so I suppose that explains it…
Since we were little, my sisters and I would help my father in the kitchen. Baking cookies was the best amuse-your-three-daughters-and-make-memories-with-them activity ever. From making the dough, to putting it in the cookie machine where you turn the handle and the dough comes out the front in a shape and my dad cuts it off at the desired length, to popping it first into the oven and then out onto the tray when done – all of it was, and still is, amazing. Even now my younger sister and I love assisting him in that way. Sure, both of us like to bake cakes and muffins and cupcakes and cookies, even taking a turn at brownies and fudge, but nothing beats helping dad churn out the cookies (literally). We have cookie cutters, and we use them, but it’s just not the same.
Every year come Christmas time, you can find the three of us (my dad, younger sister and I) buzzing about the kitchen, turning up the volume to the Christmas music and singing along as the annual Baking of the Cookies commences (although, only my younger sister and I do the singing, not my dad, and then we act silly and totally warp the lyrics…) I also fondly remember the beginning of last year, mid-January I believe, when my father and I sat baking cookies at home. Okay, not ‘sat’ baking, I merely mean that we were home making cookies… although I was sitting down while we waited for the cookies to bake… In any case, on that occasion, I was busy texting my not-yet Significant Other, during one of our Getting To Know More About You sessions. Turns out he also always was little mister helper for his mom in the kitchen, and that he is quite a whizz when it comes to food. He even took Home Economics as a subject in high school.
Although he hasn’t made me food once since I’ve known him. Not once. He still owes me the soup he promised to make me during the winter, and it’s already late Spring…
Now that it’s almost the beginning of December, I’m already anticipating the next instalment of the annual Baking of the Cookies tradition. I might just get my Significant Other to join in, if he’s up to it. So go ahead, call me Cookie, I don’t mind. But bear in mind, in the words of Cynthia Smith in a Stephen King novel, after being called ‘cookie’: “If you don’t call me cookie, I won’t call you cake”.
[A picture of me and my two sisters, taken last Christmas. My older sister is on the left with the short hair and black shirt, my younger sister is in the middle with the burgundy shirt and my red festive hat, and I’m the one on the right who is not looking at the camera (and I have a silver alice band in my hair). I’m the short one…]